Past sixty has been a bizarre entanglement, with an array of physical symptoms and serious self esteem issues. Basically my left arm has gone beyond "GoJuGata" (over 50 bum shoulder) and evolved into a bitter mix of muscle degradation, uncontrollable twitching, an arthritic clenching, tightened together in a general numbness. I have a left leg twitch for polar consistency, and back pain that prevents standing or walking in comfort. Down the tubes, at a remarkable rate, which makes even typing this awkward.
Yet I have my home, three great kids, and enough passionate love and friendship to fill all the bamboo bungalow here on Boracay. I am blessed, yet pursued by unfulfilled expectations. Remarkable how many bucket list resolution accompany a man into his sixties. Not the bungee jumping variety, but grand delusions of manly successes, great prestigious aspirations as impractical as they are unattainable.
Not that I haven't the time and resources to carve a small kingdom of prestige and an appreciative inkling of ego gratification, I just lack the fundamental belief, the necessary spark, a feeling of relevance. I imagine this wall of dull inefficiency is fairly common for my generation. There may even be books about this in my roof to floor library, or something I could listen to on audible. If my eyes were better I could take digital books on the subject to read here on the beach, or simply write one myself.
Lazy latitudes, fruit shakes on the shore of white sand perfection. I was told I would end up here, in a self fulfilling potpourri of half-happy pleasures... a leaky boat of unresolved emotions rocking close to shore. A rum and coke would work if it weren't for the hangover, so instead, I write to you, knowing you would understand.